Holmes and the Opera Ghost
by Biographica
Summary: In 1881, Dr. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were summoned to Paris to assist in the investigation into the disappearance of a singer from the stage of the Paris Opera. Instead, Holmes meets an enemy to rival Moriarty in his cunning and hatred.


**Chapter One**

In the year of our lord, 1881, myself and Mr. Sherlock Holmes, my dear and old friend, were seated in the parlour of our shared flat at 221 B Baker Street. Holmes was thumbing through letters he had received, and I was flipping through a copy of The Journal of Medicine. Suddenly, Holmes began to laugh like a madman, and lowered a letter slightly to look at me. I turned my head, and gave him a look reminiscent of those given to residents of an asylum who claim that they are sane. He simply chuckled, the Pince Nez on his face looking extremely out of place. So, I finally asked him what was so enjoyable.

"Holmes, what in heaven's name are you laughing about?"

"Look at this, Watson," was his response, shoving a letter under my nose. I looked down, and listened to Holmes, "it's from a friend of mine in Paris, Detective Fauve. He and I have done several cases together before I met you. It would appear he needs our help." I took the letter, and held it at arms length, struggling to decipher to hasty scrawl of handwriting. At last, I managed it.

_'Messeur Holmes,_

_Bonne journée, mon ami! I have no need to bandy words with the likes of you, my friend. It's just that there has been an incident in Paris that we require your assistance with. It involves the kidnapping of a singer from the stage of the Palais Garnier itself! Please do come with all haste. _

_Fauvre.'_

I looked up at where Holmes had been, only to see empty air. Looking around, I saw him pulling on his checked overcoat, and grabbing a cane from its stand near the door.

"Look sharp, Watson. We shan't want to miss the connection to Dover." With that, Holmes was out the door, leaving me to gape after him. When my mind caught up to my eyes, I immediately bolted from the room after him, grabbing my hat from the rack by the door, and following him down the stairs, barely catching him as Holmes clambered into a waiting Hansom Cab. I hauled myself into the cab after him, earning a rather dour glare from the cabbie.

"Now, what's this all about, Holmes? I read the letter, but I don't understand?" I huffed, trying to catch my breath from my brief sprint after Holmes.

"Simple, my dear Doctor. Years ago, in 1875, I think it was, before I met you; I worked briefly with Gillard, Detective Fauvre; on a few cases in Paris. He and I established a rather well-put together relationship, and his work with the Judicial Nationale has only helped to cement our friendship. He and I formed a mutual respect for the other's various talents. He for my ability to make deductions from scant evidence that always seem to be accurate, and I for his remarkable ability to sing '_La Marseillaise_' in contra tenor while completely smashed." Holmes allowed himself a small chuckle here, no doubt a memory crossing his mind. Slightly daunted, I prepaired to push my issue again, when Holmes exclaimed:

"Stop here, good sir, for just one moment!" The detective leapt from the cab, and rushed to a house across the street, and flipped the doormat over. He then returned to the cab, and sat down as if nothing out-of-the-ordinary had occurred.

"And what of this missing girl from the stage of the… what was it? Palais Garnier? How does a palace have a stage?" I felt clueless. After all, Holmes knew more about the French and their strange customs than I do.

"The Palais Garnier is not a palace, my dear Watson. It is an Opera House, and a magnificent one at that. It can seat 2,200 or so, and it is perhaps the largest Opera House in the world. It may not seat many, but it is almost twice the size of La Scala, or even the Royal London Opera." I simply blinked at Holmes. Leave it to Holmes to begin lecturing me on the relative sizes of Opera Houses.

"And how, my dear Doctor, do you think that a Prima Dona could vanish from the stage in the middle of a Command Performance?" Holmes asked me, egging me towards the conclusion he had obviously reached by now.

"A… a trap door. If they have those in Operas." I managed to mutter finally. Holmes smiled at me, his excitement showing quite plainly on his face.

"And, so, Doctor, one must assume that there is?"

"Someone operating the trap door?" Realization hit me with the speed of a steam locomotive. "I say, Holmes. You don't think it could've been an elope, do you?"

"It's a distinct possibility, Doctor." Holmes said quietly, sliding a five pound note to the Cabbie and the Hansom pulled up in front of Kings Cross. Holmes was out of the cab ahead of me, never mind that I was sitting on the side closest to the station. I followed him again, into the bustling terminal. My mind swam as various theories about how this girl could have masterminded her disappearance so masterfully. I only caught Holmes as he handed me a ticket, having been to the counter whilst I ran into a door frame trying to think with all my might, and follow him at once. This time, enroute to the train, I was able to keep up with him a bit better as the smoke and crowds made it more difficult for Holmes to sprint away.

At last, we reached our train, the 10:30 to Dover, right as it began to finish loading. We leapt through a closing carriage door, and took a compartment by the end of the carriage. In short order, the Conductor had collected our tickets, and the train was moving, past London, and towards Dover.


End file.
